


A Month in the 9th Arrondissment

by ProfessorDrarry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alchemy, Alternate Universe - College/University, Developing Relationship, Even though you actually hate paris, Let me put them on a bus okay, M/M, Mutual Pining, Paris (City), Past Relationship(s), Sometimes We Just Need Fluff And Nothing Bad Needs to Happen, Soul-Searching, The Story of Falling in Love in Paris, self-indulgent fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27319774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorDrarry/pseuds/ProfessorDrarry
Summary: Draco is really not a fan of Paris. He won't tell you why unless you get him very, very drunk. So why is he here? For a month? To do very important (at least to him) research? And why, why in the name of Merlin, is he here with Harry Potter?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I should have written a long time ago. Notes before we begin:   
> 1\. I have been to Paris. I have not lived there. I have lived in many other capital cities and I can tell you, the feeling of moving to a city you adore isn't always the same. Draco's story is just one story.  
> 2\. Yes, the 9th arrondissement has some dodgy bits. It's pretty great. Red lights and all. But that's the history of Opera and ballet and lots of art in between. And I live for it. So yes, the boys will be fine. It's culture. It's good for them.  
> 3\. I mostly wrote this for me and that is something I haven't done for a while. And so if you hate it, know that I love you, all of you, even the ones who don't love me back.  
> 4\. Fuck JK Rowling.  
> 5\. This is the longest author's note I've written since my FFNet days, mostly because there is no one left to stop me. Have you actually read all the way to the bottom of it? I'm proud of you. Go get yourself a cookie. Did you do it? No?  
> I'll wait. The story will wait. Cookie...now.

For the first time in over a decade, Draco was torn on this decision. No matter how he spun it, he was completely and utterly  _ screwed _ . And the feeling was distinctly uncomfortable. 

"You see, when one survives the rather unique experience of ending up on the wrong side until the very last possible moment," he explained to Pansy, not for the first time. "One tends to make all future decisions carefully. With pro/con lists, numerous consultations, the weighing of options both responsibly and with caution." 

"For fuck's sake, Malfoy. First and foremost," she demanded, holding up her glass. "Stop referring to yourself as  _ one _ . And secondly, shut up. Can't you see that I have  _ not  _ consumed enough of this wine to listen to you yet? _Oh, I'm Malfoy, and my completely resurrected life has too many wonderful things happening to make a decision._ " 

He grumbled a rather uncharitable word at her and picked at her chips as she sipped. Technically, she had a point (not that he'd ever admit it). He was lucky to be stuck in this particular sticky pudding. And really, if he could put his pride aside, and turn his arrogance down just a notch, he'd be fine. 

While she drank, Draco considered the options again. For the millionth time, he came to the same conclusion. He could not win. 

On the one hand, he really needed this promotion. The increased responsibility, the chance to publish under his own  _ freaking _ name for once, the prestige he may be able to take back for the field of ancient curses and legacy potions. Not to mention the significant pay bump, which the roof of his ridiculous 1960s house could really use. But, on the other hand? 

Potter. 

The idiotic, paltry nature of Potter’s research was what really pissed Draco off. The fact that  _ his  _ research had earned them the grant, and that Potter got to come along despite his redundant, derivative thesis. 

Well, that, and the fact that Potter’s original term in the history department had stretched on and on, from three months to six, to seventeen and counting. Not to mention that for every single one of those months, Potter had been trying to get on Draco’s good side. With his disarming conversational style and his ludicrous, over-sized jumpers, and his too-long-for-any-real-style hair, it had definitely not been working. 

Definitely not. 

Three months ago, Potter had started turning up every day with pastries. Two months ago, he’d begun including coffee that he left beside the pastry box on Draco’s desk, as though an excuse to come and chat once Draco was seated and reading, trying to jumpstart his foggy brain. Last month, Potter had added a rather hideous chair to Draco’s side of the office, so that he could ‘have a seat while we have our breakfast’. The  _ our  _ of that sentence irked Draco in the pit of his stomach in a way that was absolutely just irritation. 

Probably. 

When, two weeks ago, Potter had started to add small bits of trivia about France to this uncomfortable morning constitutional he was forced to endure, Draco had been instantly suspicious. His little tidbits eventually became relentless; 

‘Did you know that Paris’ oldest remaining house is the Flamel house? It’s got to have some alchemic magic left, wouldn’t you think?’    
  
‘Apparently, if you can get to  _ Montmartre  _ at the full moon, the ghost of Saint-Denis will tell you really rude knock-knock jokes. That would be a laugh, no?’ 

Finally, in the middle of chastising Potter’s pronunciation of  _ Denis _ , Draco’s brain clicked into place.  “Alright,” he’d demanded, “out with it. What is going on here?”    
  
“Don’t freak out,” Potter had replied.    
  
And so, of course, Draco had freaked out. Potter had submitted Draco’s last paper on Ancient Alchemists in old cities alongside his own research proposal for the study of magical signatures in underground architecture. Without asking, naturally. But it got so much worse. 

“We won the grant, Malfoy.”    
  
“ _ We  _ didn’t win anything.  _ You  _ submitted my work without my fucking consent. It must be illegal. At the very least its academic...indecency!”    
  
Potter at least had enough grace to be chagrined. “Well, I know...and I’m sorry, but...it was already published and...and then I realised the possibility of our research going hand in hand and it was a group proposal and I didn’t think you’d want to....”    
  
Draco had glared until Potter shut up and cleared his throat.  “Well, the point is, I  _ am  _ sorry, but we won the grant. We get to take the grad student. Go to Paris for a month, all expenses. Possibility for an extension.”    
  
Draco hadn’t softened his gaze. “Yes, well. You’re forgiven, I guess. Have fun. Don’t fuck up that research now that you’ve put my name on the line.”    
  
At which point, Potter had sputtered for a second while he picked at the croissant he’d balanced on a napkin on Draco’s desk. Draco's carefully arched eyebrow and calculated arm cross got Potter to explain.    
  
“Well, you see...you, um. You have to come? You’re the senior researcher. The grant is conditional on...on us working together to publish.” 

"Publish." 

Under  _ Malfoy _ . Be first on a paper. 

Pansy shook her head. "And you are confused about this decision  _ why.  _ I have had to listen to you talk about being Published with a capital P for nearly five fucking years." 

"But, with Potter. In France. In  _ Paris _ , of all places." 

A city that held all of Draco’s heart and most of his soul and was currently his least favourite place on planet Earth. Which Potter absolutely wasn’t allowed to know.    
  
“So what the fuck do I  _ do  _ Pansy?” he said, slamming down his beer and leaning his head on his hands. “I obviously can’t  _ go  _ to Paris.”    
  
“Or,” she countered, “you  _ could _ go to Paris and stop being quite so melo-dra-draco.”    
  
“Don’t do that. Don’t make my name into words.”    
  
“Well, you’re earning it,” she sighed. "And Paris has done nothing wrong. Go on the stupid sabbatical, Draco Malfoy." 

He sighed. "Fine. Then I'm blaming you for everything that happens there." 

"Oh dear me, how _shall_ I survive." 

* * *

When you visit it, Paris isn't really a place. It's more of an emotion, a  _ feeling.  _ It's strolling around the Seine and being accosted by the cart vendors with tiny Eiffel towers. It's lining up to take a turn staring at famous art and long-dead relics. It's eating pastries and remembering the basic French words you learned one time in school. It's touching the same walls as the poets and the characters, it's eating in restaurants that used to be the opium dens before taking in a Cabaret.

As a visitor, Paris readjusts your soul and buries itself in your heart. Though it smells and is loud, and sometimes feels dangerous or illicit, it is ultimately still  _ Paris  _ and you never want to leave it. 

Paris, when you live in it can take a different sort of turn. When you stay long enough, Paris reminds you it is a big metropolitan with big-city problems. 

It is expensive and always either too hot or too cold. The Metro is crowded and breaks down often, and the system is not nearly as comprehensive as the native Parisians would have you believe. It is hard to find work, even when your French is of the impeccable version of formality that was ingrained at birth. There is dog shit and a pick-pocket on every sidewalk, and the church steps are packed with teenagers who throw glass and swear words around like ammunition. 

Paris is long hours but closed on Sunday. Paris is delicious food and wine but at the cost of your own sanity. It is loud and unapologetic, and it is never,  _ ever _ gentle. 

Paris requires grit.

When he moved after finishing his seventh year, Draco was sure that he possessed all the grit one human could muster. His fingernails were etched with the scraping and eeking out of a smidge of reputation, enough to get into a Master's program hosted by the Ministry. Enough to move through the world without apologising every second of the day. 

But Paris, when Draco was twenty? It had nearly killed him. 

So, when he stepped off the plane with Harry Potter, his once arch-nemesis and current irritating business associate, Draco's sigh went deep into his bones and found itself a home of sadness. He sighed so loudly, so full of dread, that Potter turned to look at him with concern. 

"Don't," Draco warned, heading towards the terminal and the metro and the streets he was not ready to go back to. "Let's go. The sooner we get started, the sooner I can go home." 

He stood outside their appointed flat—in the ninth arrondissement, where he would be surrounded by opera and the ghosts of drugged up ballerinas for the next month—and sighed again. 

"Paris," he announced. "Did it have to be  _ Paris _ ?" 


	2. Chapter 2

If there was a set of guidelines for the practice of living with one's colleague in a different country, Draco had never gotten his copy. He certainly didn't know what was expected of him as Potter pulled a large, old key from his rucksack and let them into the gate at the front of the ancient building and led them up three flights of stairs.

An eerie sort of silence fell around them as they marched up. When they entered the dusty apartment, Potter dropped his ridiculously worn out and too-small duffle bag to the ground right in the entryway and then crossed his arms and looked around, routed to the spot. 

Ignoring him, Draco did what he always did when he first arrived at his new home; the carefully checked the perimeter, surveyed each baseboard and wall looking for dents and cracks, examined the taps and appliances, turned on the water and checked the heat. He knew from experience that the second anything went wrong, there'd be an instant accusation of deliberate damage or claims that it had always been that way. Best to know exactly what you were dealing with before you got into it. 

All through his inspection, Potter stood still, right in front of the door. Draco finished the bathroom, his final place because of all the things that can go wrong in a bathroom. And Potter was still stood there. 

"What exactly are you doing?" Draco snapped. 

Potter jolted but then lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "Was waiting for you to pick your room. The specs suggest one is slightly bigger." 

"Oh and I need the bigger bedroom, do I? Because I'm such a snob. Listen if you're going to just —" 

"Honestly, I thought you were putting up some wards and that I should stay here. Did you pick one?" 

Draco jolted a little himself. He wasn't used to Potter not picking up the thread of an argument. "I…uh, you go ahead and look first. I've been here before. Pay attention to the windows, not the size. It's Paris, after all.

Potter nodded and left his bag as he explored. 

"Do you really think we need wards?" Draco asked as he checked the hinges on the kitchen cupboards one more time. 

Potter shrugged again. _That_ was going to get on his nerves; Draco hated shrugging. Or at least, his father did. _Honestly, Draco, do you think that makes you appear aloof? Well, it doesn't. We must stand for something. Decide. Give an answer. Not throw our shoulders to our ears and hope to be left alone._

"It's habit, I guess," Potter replied softly. "We probably don't need them." 

Somehow, his answer made Draco uneasy. Rather than argue or start an even longer conversation than this one he already didn't want to have, he drew his wand and began to mutter the first wards that came to mind. He may have been imagining, but Potter's indifference took on a slightly grateful air, and it almost looked like he might be smiling. 

"I'll take this one if that's okay?" he supplied, pointing to the back bedroom. 

Draco raised a brow. "You surprise me, Potter. Thought for sure you'd want a view of the cafés." 

"There are a few too many window _s,"_ he replied. "But I really don't mind if you wanted this one." 

Draco shook his head, amused, but equally confused at the slight blush on Potter's face. 

"I'm comfortable wherever, much to your obvious disbelief."

Potter laughed. "Is it ridiculous that I'm bloody tired? I'm going to take a nap. Tell me if anyone tries to murder us in the next forty minutes." 

Draco nodded and watched the whole time Potter picked up his bags, gave a half-hearted wave, and then wandered into his room and shut the door. 

By the time the four o'clock bells from the church were ringing, Draco was seriously worried. He didn't know if he was supposed to wake Potter up; the man was positively buoyant at work, jubilant and energy-filled to the point of it being irritating. Some days, Draco ended up exhausted at the mere _sight_ of Potter's day. 

Were naps normal? Were subdued emotions and careful choices and concerns about wards _typical,_ or did Draco need to worry? 

Was he _allowed_ to worry about Potter? 

Probably not. And yet… 

When the five o'clock bells rang, he made up his mind. He'd organised his dresser, moved the kitchen around so he could actually cook, changed the order of the living room so that they had space to write independently, and had cleaned the bathroom. He was bored and he was hungry. Either Potter woke up, or Draco was going to eat without him. 

He marched to the room and raised a hand to knock, just as Potter whipped his door open looking utterly disoriented and out of sorts.   
  
“Oh, sorry!” he exclaimed, taking in Draco in a distant sort of way. “What time is it? There were...bells?”   
  
“Welcome to bloody Paris,” Draco sighed sarcastically. “You’ll never again not know the time. I’m going to eat, you coming?”   
  
“I…” Potter hesitated and inhaled sharply. He pushed an unruly fluff of hair out of his face and then his whole body seemed to collapse into itself. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just feel so discombobulated. Which is ludicrous. We’re _two_ hours from home.”   
  
“Guess we did lose an hour,” Draco teased with a smirk. He sobered when Potter’s expression sharpened and honed in on him. It sent him on high alert. “No, sorry, it’s overwhelming. New city. New job. You’re allowed to take a minute to readjust.”   
  
“Er, thanks, I think.”   
  
“Why don’t I just go get some food. We can eat here. The shops will be rammed so it’ll be a minute. Do you care if I just buy something easy? A quick bread, cheese, meat sort of thing? Or, I could go to the creperie just round the way. Up to you.”   
  
“I keep forgetting.”   
  
“Forgetting?”   
  
“Forgetting this isn’t new to you.”   
  
It was Draco’s turn to snap to Potter. He let his expression go deadly neutral. Truthfully, he still had no idea how much Potter knew about his year and a bit in Paris, how much of everything he said was actually taunting. Which, technically, was true of their entire truce-filled tolerance of each other. He was going to have to dig through that whole mess relatively quickly, given that they apparently lived together now. 

Which. 

Holy fuck. 

“I’ll pick up some wine too,” Draco replied. “Any requests?”   
  
“No, um,” Potter returned. “Thanks, Draco.”   
  
“You’ll go another day,” Draco snapped. His first name in Potter’s mouth was uncomfortable for any number of reasons, and he was currently trying desperately to be suspicious and unhappy with where he was. 

The moment he hit the street, though, it was hard to hold onto his resolute annoyance. Paris was just so... _Paris._ It smelled like bread and bad water and too much pee on the street. It felt like spring despite being late summer, and there were random, inexplicable flower petals littering the street. Their origins would never be revealed, and they just added to the overwhelming sense of deja vu. As did having to complete his order in French. In London, he rarely spoke in French. Sometimes, he read books, or listened to French radio, but never spoke. Still, the words rolled off his tongue, the teasing quip ready when the girl behind the till teased him for buying such a variety of things. The softness, the smoothness, the fact that he didn’t have to guard his accent. It all settled across his shoulders like a comfy jumper and, arms laden with delicious morsels of France, he found himself content. Content, and resigned.   
  
Maybe he could handle a month of Paris. 

* * *

Monday morning brought them both to Sacré-Cœur for a bright and early eight o’clock appointment. Potter had woven a ridiculously thin scarf around his neck three times, bristling when Draco had teased him. Apparently, he got _cold_ when doing research. That had just made Draco laugh harder, and he was still snickering when they took to the large stairs in front of the Basilica. The thought of the Saviour of the Wizarding World getting cold from reading was ludicrous. He wouldn’t be surprised if he had a pair of fingerless gloves shoved in his messenger bag. 

They took the steps quickly, almost too quickly. Draco smiled as he noted Potter’s leaping step. He was so much shorter than Draco himself that he was always ready to have to wait. It was like Potter pushed himself to be faster to make up for it. 

It was so early that Draco wasn’t on his game. He was only half paying attention when a particularly ballsy scammer approached them. Draco could spot them a mile away. He held the string aloft, ready to tie it to Potter’s wrist. His shady partner was lurking by the railing, ready to try and distract. Draco hit autopilot, and wrapped an arm around Potter’s arm, locking his bag between them. 

“Est-ce que ça va, mon chou?” he rambled. “Et plus tard, nous pourrons dîner avant de rencontrer Abby et Lou chez eux. Penses-tu que nous devons apporter des fleurs?” 

The rapid French did its job as they took the next few steps, successfully dissuading the men from approaching them. When they had turned away and moved down the steps, Draco quickly dropped Potter’s arm. 

“Sorry,” he dismissed. “Pickpockets. This area requires attention. So many tourists.”   
  
He turned to find Potter slack-jawed and frozen in place. Draco sighed and reached out to pinch his jumper between his fingers, pulling him up the next step. 

“Relax, I won’t touch you again. Sorry. Let’s go, we’ll be late for Martine.”   
  
“What did you say?” Potter muttered a few moments later.   
  
“Huh?”   
  
“In French,” he elaborated. Draco found a slight blush on his cheeks when he faced him again. He chuckled. 

“Oh god, you aren’t one of those, are you?” 

Potter had the grace to chuckle. “One of what? The sort that likes to be fully apprised of the words hurled at him in a language he doesn’t speak while being accosted by a man who used to jink him in school?”   
  
Thankfully, the teasing was just evident enough that Draco managed to tamp down his annoyance.   
  
“So not because of the French then? I’ve been told it sounds quite sexy,” Draco replied. The why he would figure out later. Still. 

Was he _flirting_ ? With _Potter_ ? Probably not. It was just the impact of Paris. Romance seeping into every statement. Innuendo dripping from his pores. He was fine. “I was just nattering. Asking if we could go get dinner before going to Abby and Lou’s. If we should bring flowers. Nothing scandalous, I promise.”   
  
“It’s not like I would know the difference,” Potter laughed.

“You seem happier this morning,” Draco noted.”   
  
“I feel better. Sorry about yesterday. I think I was less prepared to leave home than I thought I was. It’s just…”   
  
They had reached the top of the stairs, the door of the basilica stood ready in front of them.   
  
“Tell me,” Draco pushed. “We have time, and if you don’t tell me shit it’s going to be a very long month.”   
  
“Well,” Potter hesitated. “Yeah, okay. I just don’t leave home very often. And, I mean…”   
  
“It’s me.”   
  
“It’s you,” Potter agreed. “I think I knew it would be...weird, but I don’t usually see _anyone_ after work and I don’t think I realised—”   
  
“I can go somewhere else. I can just rent a place. We don’t have to tell the Ministry. It’s okay.”   
  
Draco knew he was speaking very quickly and he wasn’t entirely sure why. Was he fighting to go? Or was he fighting to stay? He literally didn’t know. The expression on Potter’s face seemed to suggest that he didn’t know either. 

“No,” he said eventually. “No, that would be worse. Alone is worse. But listen, can I ask a favour? Can you stop...calling me Potter? It’s a little...god, I don’t know, charged?”   
  
Draco nodded somberly. “I can certainly promise to try. So... _Harry_ , would you like to go into this ridiculously old cloister library and look through dusty tomes for the tiniest shred of evidence that there was once magic in these tombs?”   
  
Potter burst into a light, shocked laugh that made Draco grin. “I guess there’s no time like the present. After you, _Draco._ ” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *please forgive my French. It is dodgy at the best of times, and isn't going to get better by impersonating an aristocrat. I'll try to limit the French. Please, don't tell me how many mistakes I made. I did my best ;) **


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember crowds? Me either.

Draco spent a very happy morning lost in intriguing tomes that may or may not actually prove useful in supporting his alchemy theory but were engrossing nonetheless. As always happened when he began reading, he lost track of time and space. It startled him when Potter appeared at his elbow. 

“It’s lunch. I’m bored. I’m going back to the flat. You coming or staying?” he said softly. 

Draco looked at him for a moment, trying to resituate himself in the moment. “Well, I mean, this is our only day with the dedicated library. I think I’m going to stay. Is that…?”    
  
Draco let his voice fade out. He’d come very close to asking if it was  _ okay _ if he stayed. To  _ Potter _ . He had no idea what was wrong with him. Going soft in his old age, or something. Though truthfully, it was because something seemed _completely_ off. Potter was listless, morose almost. He’d been the one to drag them both here, across the channel and into ancient libraries, and he was sitting here like a wounded puppy begging Draco to leave. 

“I am going to stay. I think you should, too, but I’m not your minder,” Draco amended more firmly. “What, have you gone through the entire history of the French magical revolution and found every source of alchemical trace? Because if so, you are far smarter than I thought.”    
  
Potter huffed, dragged a hand through his hair, and sat heavily in the chair to Draco’s right. “No, you’re right, I get that. I’m just...I think I’m claustrophobic in here?”    
  
“Alright,” Draco said, putting his pen down and turning to face Potter’s chair. “Out with it.”    
  
“Out with what?”    
  
“Well, we’ve been here less than two full days and I am already wondering why the fuck you are here. You seem like you’d rather be anywhere else. Which, when you consider  _ who  _ of the two of us has a right to those emotions, is ridiculous.” 

He sat upright and closed the book he’d been making notes on with a hard snap. It echoed throughout the silent chamber with a satisfying  _ thwack _ . Potter stared at him and narrowed his eyes.    


“I’m not acting any different than I normally do,” he insisted. “You only see me for what? Twenty minutes a day?”    


Draco rolled his eyes, a habit he’d long ago broken and which felt almost painful now. “You’re the one who forced this little  _ adventure  _ on us, so you might as well admit your ulterior motives now. I won’t sit in that flat for a month with a lump on a miserable log. So fucking explain yourself.”    
  
“What on Earth are you on about?” Potter hissed, annoyed.    
  
“Oh, please, Potter. You obviously know the whole...thing, about my first degree.” 

Potter gripped the arms of his chair in an almost imperceptible way, but Draco didn’t miss much. He narrowed his eyes and folded his arms, feeling every bit as childish as he had intended.

“Exactly. So what is it?” he demanded. “You might as well tell me the truth. Your little game is quite transparent. So, what? Is the school investigating me? Was this some sort of complicated scheme to catch me out for academic integrity? Remove my name from my research? Don’t see why you felt like we had to be in Paris for that, you could have just—”    
  
“Oh my fucking god,” Potter sighed. “Draco, stop. You actually sound insane. There is no ‘ulterior motive’ here. Fuck, you really are a suspicious bastard, you know.”    
  
Draco sneered. “That may be true, but you’ve never exactly given me a reason to take you at your word.”    
  
Potter smiled sadly. He looked up at Draco and nodded. “Yeah, that’s fair, I guess.”   
  
“Exactly.”    
  
“Listen, I only know what Hermione told me about your last time in Paris, and it isn’t much. You were here. There was a fight. You got banned from the university for six months. I don’t know the details, and I definitely don’t know why that made you hate this entire city. But that’s just...I mean it’s your business, isn’t it. And it’s not why we’re here.”    
  
“Why are we here?”    
  
“Draco, you  _ know  _ why we’re here. I told you. There was a grant that aligned with both of our research streams.”    
  
“And you applied.”    
  
“Yes?”    
  
“And you wanted to come.”    
  
Potter eyed him carefully. He really was less oblivious than he used to be, which was kind of irritating. It was harder to get subtlety past him, more difficult to make a point or a joke that would go over his head. There was a depth to his understanding that was sort of sad, in a way. It came from knowledge, from experience of being tricked or fooled or lied to. Harry Potter had lived too much life at the ripe old age of thirty to be fooled easily by intonation and subtext. The thought made Draco tired. 

“Yes, I wanted to come, Draco,” he sighed. “I still  _ do  _ want to do the research. There’s just….”

He tapered off and stared down at his shoes. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to continue, Draco cleared his throat.    
  
“Seriously,” he demanded. “I meant what I said. Though maybe I didn’t need to be quite so flippant. We're living together right now. If you want that to change, say the word and I can go home. Or find a new place. Despite what you might think, I don’t want to make you — or anyone, actually — miserable.”    
  
Potter sighed again.    
  
“Harry…”    
  
“No, this isn’t...I’m not…”    
  
“Okay, enough said.”    
  
“I broke up with my fiance on Thursday,” Potter blurted.    
  
Draco sputtered for a moment, taking in too much information at once. The thoughts went through his head in a disjointed order. He tried to ask every question at once, so he, of course, ended up asking none.    
  
“You were engaged — wait, Thursday? Like the day before we —  _ you  _ broke up with — was she someone I know — did you know you were — was it because of Paris?”    
  
Potter actually chuckled a little bit as Draco wound down. A basic, alternative version of him bristled as he heard the sound. There was no malice in the sound, though. He tried to take a deep breath and waited as Potter exhaled deeply. 

. “Okay. That’s fair. Um. Let’s see.” 

He stood up and started listing things on his fingers as he paced around the other side of the table from where Draco was still gaping at him.    
  
“Yes, I was engaged," Potter began, ticking off on one finger the first half question Draco had asked.

"We kept it quiet. Even now, I don’t get that luxury very often. So, I paid the right people and it stayed out of the papers. And yes, it was the day before we left. And I broke up with...with  _ him, _ because there were ultimatums and, I don't know…demands? He made it very obvious that we were headed towards inevitable doom anyway." 

Potter sighed and ran the hand that had the numbers on it through his hair before finishing his sentence.

"And, no, it wasn’t  _ because _ of Paris, not directly. Though, I don’t know if Paris helped.”    
  
Draco found himself baffled. He took a sharp breath before quietly asking. “How did I not know any of this? We share a twenty-by-twenty office three days a week.”    
  
“I told you,” Potter smirked, though there was exhausted sadness behind the gesture. “I kept it quiet.”    
  
“Well, sure, but there’s  _ quiet _ and then there’s...wait, what ultimatums?    
  
“Nope," Potter chuckled, throwing himself back in his chair at the large table."Gonna need significantly more alcohol in my body before that conversation.”    
  
“Merlin fuck, Potter," Draco sighed. "You should have told me when we got on the  _ plane _ . Research is not what you need right now. You need  _ Paris. _ You need magic, this city when it's made of melancholy, and — god, no wonder you slept all day.”    
  
“Some of us are capable of just, you know...going forward,” Potter muttered sullenly. “I’ll be fine. I  _ am  _ fine.”    


Draco leapt up and started gathering his belongings. He was shuffling through the list of things he wanted to do in Paris, trying to decide how many of them were out because of recent heartbreak. After all, Paris was simultaneously the best and worst possible city in which to be newly single; on the one hand, it was that cliched and disgusting venue of romance. But there was the other half, the _bohème_. The side full of grit and promiscuity, powered by the unconventional.

Truthfully, he didn’t know Potter well enough to know what he needed right now. He was sure that the touristy things that Draco abhorred would be his taste, and there was a possibility that they were worthwhile, even now. In an instant, he knew what they needed to do. He cleared his throat and belatedly answered Harry.    


“Maybe some people are, but you, sir, are not one of them. Come on. I know I’m not exactly...the company you want right now," Draco conceded. "But I may be able to be enough.” 

“Draco, look, I appreciate the…sentiment or whatever, but I’m okay.”    
  
“Fine. You’re okay. Regardless, we need to eat lunch.”    
  
“Sure, but I was just going to go eat the leftovers from yesterday.”    
  
Draco scoffed, “You are not going to eat leftovers straight from the fridge on your first weekend in Paris. Come on. I have a plan. "

Which wasn't strictly true. He did by the time they made it down the giant Montmartre stairs and into the metro. But it wasn't exactly a  _ good  _ one. 

* * *

"Okay, I can admit when I've failed," he teased as he and Harry got crushed together on the crowded train. "I feel like I should warn you where we're headed." 

Harry smirked and shrugged, grabbing onto the post beside Draco and ending up a step back. It brought them back to safer ground. The type of ground that reminded Draco that he shouldn't be flirting with the  _ Gryffindor _ , who had just ended a serious relationship with someone. 

And, more importantly, who was Harry bloody Potter. He gave his head a small shake. 

"So obviously, Paris is…busy." 

This made Harry actually laugh. " _ No. _ "

"Shut it. Paris is busy,  _ but  _ you do have to see the cheesy things before you leave. And before you can appreciate the city for real. So. How do you feel about crepes in parks?" 

"I mean, I'm usually pretty pro-crepe regardless of location, so…" 

"Excellent. So we'll do this. But if you end up hating me. Or it. Or the…city, or whatever, you must tell me. We'll go somewhere quieter." 

Potter smirked at him. “This is unnerving. Just so you know. I am unnerved. You’re Draco Malfoy. You don’t care about me. I’m Harry Potter, remember?”    
  
Draco shrugged as the train lurched to a stop. “Maybe I just don’t want to live with a miserable sop for the next three and a half weeks.”    
  
They didn’t actually speak again for the next twenty minutes. Draco wove his way through the busy Saturday morning crowd and Harry deftly followed, but they never approached what might be considered a companionable stride. They dipped through utter chaos and Harry never looked dismayed. The first time Draco had done this particular walk on a weekend, he’d nearly fainted from the panicked crush of sheer humanity. Apparently, Potter didn’t suffer from the same hatred of lack of space. 

When they reached the square, Draco beamed to realise the crepe stand was still there, in the same spot it always had been, with a long and snaking line.    
  
“I think it’s worth it, but if you’d rather get something else,” he said, gesturing to the queue genially. 

Potter shrugged again, and this time, the gesture seemed...almost whimsical. Definitely amused. Whatever he was actually feeling, Draco hadn’t yet irritated him. He considered the minor miracle that was the day they’d had so far and was loathe to even take too loud a breath. He shimmied forward until they found the end of the queue, yet they stood in continued silence for the duration. It was neither pregnant nor uncomfortable, and even that threw Draco off. He was worried he’d never find anything to say to Potter again. 

Until he ordered a crepe with three kinds of chocolate shavings, two types of sauce and chocolate-covered strawberries inside. 

“This is lunch,” Draco scoffed. “I’d throw up if I ate that.”    
  
Potter smirked at him and shrugged again. There was utter  _ cheekiness  _ in it this time which Draco had to be reading into. No one had expressive  _ shoulders  _ for fucks sake. He ordered his far more sensible ham and cheese and paid for both as the vendor put both into a bag. The man was in his late sixties, judging by his accent and his hair, and he made some ridiculous joke that Draco felt obligated to laugh at. The second he’d heard it, it left his head, but the look on Potter’s face as he glanced back and forth between the vendor and Draco was disconcerting. That same cheeky amusement, coupled with...more?    
  
“Let’s go see the damn thing, then,” he said gruffly, heading East towards the champs. 

They hit the pavement outside the tower and Draco internally sighed. As he could have predicted, it was utterly  _ rammed  _ with people. Parisians didn’t come here on the weekend. Or, you know, almost ever. So it was definitely all tourists. A million tourists wandering in unpredictable directions, holding up giant cameras in each other's faces. Illegal street vendors in every other square of pavement,  _ policier  _ floating just on the periphery, noticeable but only because they were the only people alone in the area. He turned to apologise, to say they’d come back another day and could go eat in a regular park instead, but when he finally focused in on Potter’s face, he found the expression of astonished happiness that was common upon seeing the Eiffel tower for the first time. Against his will, Draco smiled.    
  
“Woah,” Potter said.    
  
“Yeah. Come on, don’t get lost,” Draco chuckled, weaving forward again. Luckily, Potter was paying enough attention to follow. Draco narrowed his eyes and quickly found what he was looking for.    
  
The small patch of grass wasn’t much, but it would be enough. The afternoon sun was warm and completely welcome against that sharp breeze that had taken hold despite the summer date. He glanced back and found Potter still angled towards the tower, neck craned high, mouth just slightly agape. Draco pulled out his wand and quietly, subtly cast towards his large research bag. He pulled out a red and white checked picnic blanket and sighed to himself. 

“Bit on the nose there, Malfoy,” he murmured in his internal Pansy voice. He threw the blanket out and considered it a moment before turning back to his bag and casting again. This time, the blanket was blue and white with stripes. He threw it down beside the first. It was better, he thought, to make a picnic lunch by the Eiffel Tower a little less stereotypical. He didn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. 

“Wrong idea about what?” Potter said, having turned back and wandered to where Draco was standing.    
  
“Sorry, what?”    
  
“You were muttering.” He smirked and ran a hand through his hair. “Wait, I don’t want to know. I’m sure it was about me being such a tourist, wasn’t it? I can’t help it. Look at it! I know it’s cliched and...whatever, never mind.”    
  
Draco sat himself down on the blue blanket and pulled out his crepe before pushing the bag towards the other blanket. 

“Don’t be stupid. It  _ is  _ amazing,” he said, making it as clear as he knew how that he was.  "It's cliché for a reason. It's fucking beautiful. Although it's irritating that it's literally just a radio tower" 

“I thought it was for a fair or something?”    
  
“Originally.”    
  
Draco didn’t elaborate. Potter was a researcher too. If he had a question, he’d have to ask. Apparently, he did not. He sat himself down and pulled the wrapped plate into his lap, never letting his gaze fall from the structure in front of him. They ate, they sat, they lingered. Draco didn’t push the conversation. He had a strange feeling that Potter’s taciturn mood — not the norm, if his office life was anything to go by — wasn’t a mark against Draco. 

“He didn’t want to come, you know?” Potter announced suddenly. “Henry? I asked him if he wanted to come with me, work from home for a month but, you know...in Paris. And he just… he freaked out. How dare I expect him to upturn his life for my goal. How dare I apply for the grant without telling him. How dare I suggest his work wasn’t as important. All I did was ask my future husband if he wanted a free trip to Paris…”    
  
Draco looked at the ground. He’d have plenty to say if this conversation with Pansy, but he didn’t know Potter well enough to be that for him. He didn’t have the suggestions of where he could shove ‘Henry’s’ work, or how to make Potter feel better. 

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I woke up the next day and I told him we weren’t in it for the long hall like I thought we were. We hadn’t gotten rings. It was shockingly easy to walk out that door. Think I made the right decision, don’t you?”    
  
“Does it feel like that?”    
  
Potter eyed him and leaned back on his elbows, staring up at the tower. “Right now? Absolutely. But this morning...that was hard. The silence. It kills me. Sitting with my own thoughts and shit. It’s very bad for the trauma brain. Do you find that too?”    
  
Draco froze and he could tell it had happened physically, because Potter sat bolt straight and shook his head. “Shit, no, wait. Sorry, Malfoy. I didn’t mean to—”   
  
“I have it the other way around,” Draco interrupted. “I have a hard time in crowds.”    
  
“What, seriously?” Potter all but shouted. “Why are we here, then, idiot? We could have come any day. Or I could have come by myself.”    
  
“It’s fine. We have islands,” Draco smirked, realising only after the fact how dumb he sounded.    
  
Potter chuckled. “Okay. Well, for what it’s worth. Thanks. This is great. I needed a reminder of why I was here. Which, I am only now remembering is not actually to see the sights. Fuck, did I screw up your research?”   
  
“Not at all,” Draco replied, leaning back until he was lying in the grass. 

“I’ll see if I can pull some strings. Get us more time.”    
  
“It might shock you to know that I have more strings here than you.”    
  
Potter laughed at that and leaned back again. The afternoon wore on. The crowd ebbed and flowed, with Harry never seeming to tire of gazing up at the structure before them. Eventually, Draco pulled out his notes and started to read through them.    
  
“You find anything interesting?” Harry asked when he noticed.    
  
“Not really. The books are all the same.”    
  
“Do you miss school sometimes?” 

“What? No. Why, do you?”    
  
Harry laughed a small laugh. “Sometimes. I miss having the answers in front of me. Having things spoon-fed to me. I don’t even know how I ended up in research, other than the teaching part. Hermione laughs at me constantly. I hated the library in school and now I live in one. But I can’t help it. I hate not having the answers. And the work in ancients? It’s just dangerous enough.”    
  
He looked sincere. Truthfully, Draco had always wondered how Potter had ended up in a field of books and old information when he was always such a...well, sports lad, truth be told. He decided now was not the time to comment. A beat passed between them and Harry’s smile faltered. Draco cleared his throat.

"Tell you a secret,” he admitted. “This isn't what I want to do." 

Harry stared at him. “What, seriously?” 

“Yup.”    
  
“But you went to so much trouble to stay in it.”    
  
“Right?” Draco said wryly.    
  
“So what do you want to do?”   
  
“Want to open an inn.” Draco felt a weird, creeping horror sink into him. Literally, only one other person knew that information. He was losing his mind. Seriously. Could he keep blaming Paris? For now. 

But Harry smiled kindly. “I can see that, actually. You're so…detail-oriented? It would be a helpful skill.” 

“Fastidious,” Draco corrected. “My mother's word. She didn't mean it as a compliment. But, I dunno. I just think it would be fun.”    
  
“Should do it,” Potter said, lying back down. 

Eventually, they seemed to agree on a silent, unplanned departure. They stood, they made their way back to the flat. Nothing felt strange or uncomfortable.    
  
“Day off tomorrow,” Draco supplied. “Think you want to go for a really long walk?”    
  
Potter nodded but froze with his keys in his hand. “Draco, one question.”    
  
Draco arched an eyebrow. 

“Why are you being so...decent?”   
  
“I've been decent for years. You just haven't been paying attention. I’m going out tonight to meet an old friend. I’d invite you along but you look about ready to pass out.”   
  
“Emotional few days,” Harry agreed with a wry grin. “I don’t think I can handle more _out_ right now. Going to make some soup.” 

Draco nodded and wandered to his room to change. When he was ready, far too early and far too calm, he sat down on his bed and pulled out a page from the back of his notes. And he made a timeline. He made a timeline of when Potter could see Paris. When he would be ready to see Degas and drag. When he'd be somber but not sad enough for Notre Dame. When his senses would be ready to deal with French food - real French food, un-anglicised and dripping with butter and fresh herbs. He made this list and he let himself drift into his own thoughts with Harry's question circling around his mind like the bottom of a fountain, ready to spring back to the foreground whenever it wanted. Then he got up and went to deal with his own disastrous life.

Why  _ was  _ he being so decent to Potter? A question, he eventually decided, for another day. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's Harry fairing, you ask? Oh, darlings.

Harry woke up with a blistering headache. It wasn't surprising, he supposed; based on the light from the window, the weather had seriously changed, and also, he'd barely slept.  The flat was nice enough, but he was having trouble sleeping alone. And in a new country. And in a city. And near Malfoy, who could technically still murder him, despite the very close-to-the-surface niggling feeling that he probably wouldn't do that anymore. 

The lack of sleep was good for two things; overthinking, and research. He'd done way too much of both by the time Malfoy had stumbled back in at half three. He was only half certain of the stumbling, but the sound of the entry made it seem like sobriety had not been on the cards on Draco's night out. 

Rolling himself upright, he ran a cursory hand through his hair and threw on the first two things that came to him at summoning from his suitcase. He didn't look at himself in the full-frame mirror in the corner, in part because he didn't care and in part because he wasn't going to change anything if he did.

He snuck into the living room and found what he already almost knew was there; Malfoy.

_Draco_. He really must start using it. 

So Draco, then. Asleep and snoring lightly, his shirt haphazardly discarded on the floor beside him. The image of the extremely lanky man with the nearly-translucent skin draped luxuriously across a sofa that definitely did not suit his height met Harry with a pitted dread in his stomach that quite matched his headache. 

Mostly, because it confirmed two things. 

Firstly, Draco Malfoy, out of his perfectly tailored and intentionally unapproachable neatness, was as gloriously fit as he was  _ in  _ his expensive 'please take me seriously' wardrobe. 

And second, that Harry had  _ definitely, absolutely  _ had that thought well before they'd arrived in Paris. 

Sighing an inadvisably loud sigh, he grabbed his jacket and slipped into his shoes. He had been partially cured of his fear of France the day before in the park beside the Eiffel Tower. Technically, he had never really been 'scared', he just hadn't travelled in far longer than he cared to admit. He was Harry Potter. He could obtain coffee and breakfast foods, for Merlin's sake. 

But more importantly, he was discombobulated and uncomfortable enough with Draco's chosen resting place that he found the courage to venture out for all alone. 

He managed to charm his way into two lattes using zero French from the girl at the shop below the flat. He was slightly less successful at getting what he really hoped was a box pastries from the older man next door, who grumbled at him in French but also packed a box. 

He looked up at the stairs, back at the street, and decided he'd finish his coffee in the park before he tried rousing Draco to his hangover. 

With a quick stasis charm on Draco's latte, he settled onto a bench. Children were playing, birds were singing. He had a lead in his research that, at least for the moment, he was telling no one about. He was content. The fact that it was surprising him so much was… Alarming? 

At the basis of this alarm was how far down he had gotten. How much Henry had drafted him into his perfect specimen of Hermitude. Sure, he’d probably always been a great candidate for isolation and small-town content; after all, he'd had enough adventure for a lifetime. And had it just been about the research trip, he'd probably still be in London, exploring only as far as the Twickenham library would allow. 

Instead, Henry had said the fatal phrase during the first fight they had about Paris. He'd stared at Harry, hard and cold and said;

_ Why do you even care? They are Death Eaters. Let them rot.  _

And Harry had not recovered. He'd never forget those words. Henry, at his angriest moment, had proven that he didn't  _ get  _ it. Didn't get Harry. Ultimately, even more than adventure, that was what Harry had suffered more than enough of. 

He was done with people who could not understand him. 

On his bench, with his coffee, in the depths of thought and bathed in the morning sunshine, it suddenly didn't matter. His day with Draco had highlighted what he'd already truly known. He'd never really loved Henry. He was content, where he was meant to be. It hadn't been the case for so long that the feeling took a moment to take hold. He felt th grin on his face, the muscles before the emotion leaked through. 

"You are Potter, non?" a deep voice suddenly demanded, cutting through his peace. 

Harry inhaled, nodded slowly, pulling his wand towards his hand just in case, though he had no plans to use it. In truth, he was only really waiting for the inevitable; encounters with strangers who already knew his name only ever went one of two ways. Either he was held up as a saviour and gushed over or flattered within an inch of his life —his least favourite version of the situation, to be honest —or he was attacked for his part in the battle because no one was ever unanimously happy with history. 

“Ah,  _ je comprends tout maintenant  _ ” the strange man said with a small chuckle. He settled himself down on the very little available space beside Harry’s breakfast. “C’est son cafe?” 

Harry looked at the man quizzically. He knew enough random words to understand that the coffee was the question here, but the man didn’t wait for an answer before he shrugged and drank deeply. 

“Don’t worry,” he laughed at Harry’s stern look. “He owes me, trust me.”    
  
“I was saying that I get it now, seeing you here, with sun and everything,” the man continued. “You’re just his type. Broody but a little dumb? Curly hair and a look of the world on your shoulders? Just his type.    
  
The man gestured at Harry in a very suggestive way using the coffee. It was almost...impressive? The amount of sex that this man managed to throw with the flick of a hand holding a takeaway cup made Harry’s face heat ludicrously. He knew, right then and there, that he had never been that sexy, even in the  _ middle  _ of sex. 

“Gerard,” the man said, holding out his other hand, the wrong hand to shake, and waiting.    
  
Given no choice, Harry partook in the awkward handshake and then cleared his throat. “Uh, do I...do I know you?”    
  
Gerard laughed. “Mais non, cher. I am Draco’s friend. He did not mention me? I am...well, not offended. I get why he would not want  _ you  _ to know of  _ me.  _ Tell him he owes me a coffee table. But mostly, I came to make sure he got back okay? Disappeared in the middle of a conversation, that  _ con _ . Sorry. Asshole, you say. I think. So?”    
  
“So?” Harry repeated, baffled. 

“Is he home?”    
  
“Oh,” Harry said stupidly, his cheeks now flaming as he pictured exactly  _ where  _ Draco was right now. Fucking hell. He was not doing well. “Yeah.”    
  
“You are not the talking one, euh? That is good. He talks enough for everyone.”    
  
“Did you...are you a school friend? I suppose he told you about our research?” Harry replied, desperately trying to bring the conversation back to solid ground.    
  
Gerard laughed a terrifyingly hearty laugh. “Friend.  _ Oui. Friend. _ Listen. Thank you for this chat. Tell Draco he doesn’t deserve coffee. Go. Feed him. It is a great solution to many problems, to feed one’s companions?”    
  
“We aren’t...I’m not…” Harry said slowly.    
  
“Casse-toi,” Gerard grinned. “Relax, I know. I meant as ‘ _ flat-mates’ _ . ”    
  
“Oh,” Harry whispered.    
  
“Merde. You two are seriously screwed. Here,” Gerard picked up the box and handed it to Harry as though he himself had brought it. “He’s the worst when he’s hungover. Good luck.”    
  
With that, Gerard walked off; his tall frame was soon silhouetted in the strong late morning sun and Harry was hit with the sudden realization that he had no idea what had just happened to him. Picking up his own coffee as the dark-haired Parisian sauntered away from him, with an indecent swing to his hips and an indelicate way of accentuating his arse with his hands in his pockets, Harry realised he had literally no choice but to go back to the flat. His reverie was gone, he shivered slightly in the morning chill, and now — one coffee short — the calm the park had been bringing him was shattered.    
  
He walked the stairs to the flat with zero consideration for the state of Draco he’d find. A fact which he immediately regretted, because Draco was  _ most definitely  _ awake. And on the couch still, his long hair in seventeen directions, his vest twisted in both shoulders into thin spaghetti. Harry’s mouth went dry.    
  
“Not a  _ fucking  _ word or I’ll hex you,” Draco swore at him hoarsely. “That had better be food. And coffee for me. Or I may hex you anyway.”    
  
“See you hold your drink well,” Harry quipped, the words coming to him easier than an explanation or a comment.    
  
“Fuck. Off. Coffee.”    
  
“Fraid I don’t have one of those for you, but you can have some of these pastries.”    
  
Draco glared at him but held his hand out for the offered food.    
  
“Would have had a coffee too, except I ran into your friend Gerard at the park.”    
  
Draco’s glare faltered slightly before he placed it safely and securely back into his eyebrows and fixed Harry with a stare. “You have my sympathy. But please, don’t say his name again. It’s almost painful how English you are sometimes. What did that Asshole want?”    
  
“Seems you owe him a table?” Harry joked. The wince from Draco was imperceptible. “And he, uh...wanted to make sure you got home okay. Apparently, you disappeared?”   
  
“I did say I was leaving,” Draco mumbled, sinking into the sofa with his sandwich. “Figures he’d only hear what he wanted to. Was that all?”    
  
“Well, I mean. He did take your coffee.”    
  
“That bastard.”    
  
“So, from your school days, then?”    
  
“Sure,” Draco said with a shrug. “If school is code for ‘deep in the middle of a seedy club where dancefloor fingering is totally acceptable’. It’s fine. I’m sorry he bothered you. I shouldn’t have gone over there.”    
  
Harry would have replied, but his mind decided that this was the exact moment it would process all the new information he had just received; one, Draco Malfoy. Hot.  Two, Draco Malfoy, French in most senses of the word.  Three, Draco Malfoy, ornery when hungover. 

Four, Draco Malfoy? Gay. Gay, gay, gay.    
  
“I think I’ll take a shower. Then we should head to one of your museums,” Harry muttered.    
  
“Museum?” Draco moaned. 

“Yup. Hangover potion. Clothes.”    
  
The last thing Harry heard before closing the door to the washroom was the most irritating and indecent moan. He hit his head against the wall several times for good measure. 

Terribly,  _ terribly,  _ inconvenient. 


End file.
